Human Error
by xkatrinna
Summary: Emotions, just as Sherlock had always believed, were the greatest human error. How silly it was that he had got himself wrapped up in them


Emotions, just as Sherlock had always believed, were the greatest human error.

How silly it was that he had got himself wrapped up in them.

* * *

_Affection._

Stupid. Irritating. Completely useless.

Possibly the most annoying emotion.

-x-

Sherlock had never really been affectionate towards other people. He had never wanted to be.

He had never understood the need for it. He was perfectly fine on his own, without other people's affection, thank you very had never really cared what others had thought about him and his unusual ways. He had his own approval and that was enough. It had had to be enough.

John, of course, had ruined that. His opinion was one of the very few things Sherlock held in high regard.

As his time with John lengthened, the need of approval from the other man increased. It was completely infuriating.

He had wanted John to like him, even half as much as Sherlock had loved John.

He still did, though he knew it was an idle hope now.

He hadn't heard a thing from the other man since the wedding, and that had been months ago. At first, nothing had really changed. John still came out on cases, they still spoke every day. John even came around for dinner every week. However, slowly, but surely, John came on cases less and less. They saw each other less and less. He stopped coming around for dinner completely. He started to only call once a week, once a fortnight, once a month. He stopped replying to Sherlock's texts, and when he did, they were curt replies that usually had some excuse about not being able to see him.

It began to hurt too much, so Sherlock had stopped trying and now, there was nothing.

Of course there was nothing. John didn't need Sherlock, or his affection. He had Mary; he had Mary and he had his unborn child.

Sherlock knew how to stay away when he wasn't needed.

Wasn't wanted.

It had been an idiotic thought, to think that everything would have been the same when he returned from his time away. Deep down, Sherlock knew things would have changed. He just never thought it would be this much. A part of him had always thought maybe John had wanted him, too.

He had dreamed of coming back and telling John of his affection towards the other man. Had dreamed of living happily ever after with him.

How stupid. How childish.

Sherlock had not thought he would be spending his days getting high and wondering how he was going to get his next hit without Mycroft noticing.

* * *

_Intimacy._

Annoying. Dumb. All it did was complicate things.

Possibly the thing that would break him in the end.

-x-

Sherlock had never wanted to be intimate with someone the way he did with John; it wasn't just physical intimacy, no, it was emotional as well.

That's probably what scared him the most.

He had never wanted to share himself with someone else before. It was foreign, how he was willing to give John everything as soon as the man said go.

John was the only person he had ever wanted. The only person he would ever want.

Sherlock wasn't a selfless man; if he wanted something, he would get it. With John, though, it was different; it had to be different.

He had helped plan the wedding, smiling the entire time, he had smiled and danced at the wedding, despite the ridiculously painful ache in his chest. He had gone over and had dinner with John and Mary, being polite and civilised, smiling and laughing when he was supposed to. He had watched on, still smiling, when the two had kisses and hugged, happiness radiating off of them at an alarming rate. He had ignored the overwhelming wish to take Mary's place and had given them their time when they had needed it.

Sherlock would do anything to ensure John's happiness. Even if it meant leaving the life of the man he loved.

Because, above all else, he loved John Watson; and that is what you do for the people you love. You act selflessly.

Sherlock refused to comprehend what it was doing to him.

* * *

_Love._

Idiotic. A flaw. A chemical defect.

Possibly the greatest motivator of them all.

-x-

Sherlock had never, ever, seen himself falling for someone. He had always assumed that love was a dangerous disadvantage.

A chemical defect. Human error.

He had John to thank for the final proof.

If Sherlock was honest with himself, which he tried not to be these days, he would admit that, had it not been for John, he would not be alive.

John had saved his life on countless occasions, Sherlock couldn't deny that. Some of their cases had been more dangerous than anyone would guess from reading the blog, but this was different.

During his years away, Sherlock had spent a good portion of his time thinking about John. While waiting in the freezing weather of Moscow, he had thought of John's arms around him. While crawling around the blistering hot grounds of the Middle East, he had thought of running through London with John. While tied down in France, his body being repeatedly beaten, he had thought of going back home and curling up with John. He had thought of touching John, both innocently and not so innocently. He had thought of what it would feel like to finally kiss the other man, to show him what it was like to be with another man. He had thought of John pushing him into the mattress, body shuddering with the overwhelming amount of pleasure moving through it. He had thought of clinging to John at night, his head tucked safely into the crook of the other man's neck.

The thoughts of John were what had kept him going, what had kept him fighting.

His love for John, the need for him to be safe, was Sherlock's ultimate motivator.

* * *

_Sentiment._

Silly. Pointless. Good for nothing.

Possibly the greatest error of them all.

-x-

That was his first big mistake, Sherlock thought.

To allow himself to open up to someone. To allow himself to become close to someone. To allow himself to feel something towards someone.

How stupid of him. How incredibly stupid of him.

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. He should have known something bad would come from it. Nothing good ever came from sentiment.

Pain. Anger. Hatred.

It hurt; bloody fuck, did it hurt. Sherlock could hardly get himself out of bed these days, opting to spend his days wrapped in a sheet and ignoring everyone that wasn't Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft.

Not that he particularly wanted to speak to the latter, but he really had no choice. Mycroft wasn't one to be ignored; especially from his baby brother.

He was angry; of course he was fucking angry. At Moriarty, at John, at Mary, at Mycroft, at himself.

The entire thing was bound to blow up in his face sooner or later.

Sherlock hated himself for ever letting it happen. He should have known how to block out such irrelevant emotions by now.

He wished he hated John, too; but he didn't. Sherlock didn't think he could.

Mycroft had always said sentiment was possibly the biggest human error; that it would always be the thing that would break people in the end.

Sherlock hated his brother for being right.


End file.
